Hot Single Docs: Giving In To Temptation. Lynne Marshall

      Many thanks to Mills & Boon for the opportunity to participate in this wonderful Medical continuity. Special thanks to Flo Nicoll for creating Polly and John, two characters I grew to think of as friends by the end of this book.

CHAPTER ONE

      MONDAY MORNING POLLY SEYMOUR dashed into the sparkling marble-tiled lobby of New York’s finest pediatric hospital, Angel’s. The subway from the lower East Side to Central Park had taken longer today, and the last thing she wanted to do was be late on her first day as a staff RN on the orthopedic ward.

      Opting to take the six flights of stairs instead of fight for a spot in one of the overcrowded elevators, she took two steps at a time until she reached her floor. As she climbed, she thought through everything she’d learned the prior week during general hospital orientation. Main factoid: Angel Mendez Children’s Hospital never turned a child away.

      That was a philosophy she could believe in.

      Heck, they’d even accepted her, the girl whose aunts and uncles used to refer to as “Poor Polly”. It used to make her feel like that homely vintage doll, Pitiful Pearl. But Angel’s had welcomed her to their nursing staff with open arms.

      Blasting through the door, completely out of breath, she barreled onwards, practically running down a man in a white doctor’s coat. Built like a football player, the rugged man with close-cropped more-silver-than-brown hair hardly flinched. He caught her by the shoulders and helped her regain her balance.

      “Careful, dumpling,” he said, sounding like a Clint-Eastwood-style grizzled cowboy.

      Mortified, her eyes shot wide open. Sucking in air, she could hardly speak. “Sorry, Dr....” Her gaze shifted from his stern brown eyes to his name badge. “Dr. John Griffin.” Oh, man, did that badge also say Orthopedic Department Director? He was her boss.

      She knew the routine—first impressions were lasting impressions, and this one would be a doozy. Without giving him another chance to call her “dumpling”—did he think she was thirteen?—she pointed toward the hospital ward and took off, leaving one last “Sorry” floating in her wake.

      At the nurses’ station, she unwrapped her tightly wound sweater, removed her shoulder bag and plopped them both on the counter. “I’m Polly Seymour. This is my first day. Is Brooke Hawkins here?”

      The nonchalant ward clerk with an abundance of tiny braids all pulled back into a ponytail lifted his huge chocolate-colored eyes, gave a forced smile and pointed across the ward. “The tall redhead,” he said, barely breaking stride from the lab orders he was entering in the computer.

      Gathering her stuff, and still out of breath, Polly made a beeline for the nursing supervisor. Brooke’s welcome was warm and friendly, and included a wide smile, which helped settle the mass of butterflies winging through Polly’s stomach.

      Brooke glanced at her watch. “You must be Polly and you’re early. I wasn’t expecting you until seven.”

      “I didn’t want to miss the change-of-shift report, and I don’t have a clue where to put my stuff or which phone to clock in on.” Would she ever breathe normally again?

      “Follow me,” Brooke said, heading toward another door, closer to the doctor. “I see you already ran into our department director, Dr. Griffin. Literally,” Brooke said, with playful eyes and a wink.

      Polly put her hand to the side of her face, shielding her profile from the man several feet away and still watching her. “I think he thought I was a patient.”

      “Did he smile at you?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then he definitely thought you were one of our patients. He doesn’t smile for staff.”

      * * *

      An hour later, completely engrossed in taking vital signs in a four-bed ward of squirming children wearing various-sized casts, splints and slings, Polly heard inconsolable crying. She glanced over her shoulder. “What is it, Karen?” The little girl had undergone femoral anteversion to relieve her toeing-in when walking, and was in a big and bulky double-leg cast with a metal bar between them keeping her feet in the exact position in which they needed to be to heal.

      Polly rushed to the toddler’s crib and lowered one of the side rails. “What is it, honey?”

      With her face screwed up so tight her source of tears couldn’t be seen, Karen wailed. Polly could have easily done a tonsil check while the child’s mouth was wide open, but knew that wasn’t the origin of Karen’s frustration. She lifted the little one, who weighed a good ten pounds more than she normally would have because of the cast, from the bed and cooed at her then patted her